


Dear Father

by adobe_beforeffects



Series: Dear Father [1]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Gore (Dead Body), One Shot, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-18 10:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10615410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adobe_beforeffects/pseuds/adobe_beforeffects
Summary: Dear Father,I don't know what to do anymore.





	

_Dear Aunt Holway,_

_I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to make it over for Christmas. I’ve been ill lately, but I’ll make sure to meet up sometime soon. Tell Chris I said hello._

_Sincerely,_

_Michael_

Part of it is a lie, but somehow it’s not the part about him being sick.

* * *

_Dear Father,_

He stops, pen in hand. He just wrote a letter, didn’t he? This shouldn’t be hard.

His pen moves to the next line, but no words come. How does one talk about this? “ _I died when I rescued her, but I’m still here. I don’t know what to do._ “ The thought of putting it on paper scares him, as if writing it down would make it official.  “ _I’m terrified. Please, I need your help_.“ Would his father even care? “ _I succeeded. You’re finally proud of me now, right?_ “

Some sort of black liquid drips from his face and stains the paper. He pushes it aside and promises himself that he’ll get to it tomorrow, but he knows that’s another lie.

* * *

“What do you mean, you’re the baby’s father? Are you telling me I had my house burned down for nothing?!“

Michael puts down the remote, letting himself be bathed in the soft light of the television. He wishes more than anything that he could enjoy his usual bag of popcorn right now, and the thought strikes him with an odd pang of sorrow.  

_You had your insides ripped out 13 episodes ago._ The thought always pops into his head when watching anymore, a silent count of how long it had been since the incident. Had he died like he should have, the story would have stopped with Vlad’s house burning. He wouldn’t have been able to watch Clara move out, or watch the new character claiming to be the baby’s father make a surprise appearance. What a shame it would be, to have a story like this be cut off before the ending _._

He would be smiling, if there were enough muscles in his mouth to do so. At least there was one benefit to being unable to die.

* * *

He goes into the bathroom to get a towel and finds himself staring at his reflection.

He hadn’t looked in the mirror since he woke up - there was simply no desire to. He already knew that his face was an unrecognizable mess, and he had no need to make himself presentable, whatever that would mean in his current state. But suddenly he finds himself almost entranced by it despite his fear, the same way someone would struggle to look away from a horrible car crash on the side of the road.

The Thing in the mirror is a human corpse. The skin is almost bruised, with an unhealthy bluish purple tint in areas that segue into a blackish or peachish color in others. It has no hair, no teeth, nothing inside of it at all, and he finds himself lifting a hand to the mirror to make sure the reflection does the same. The Thing’s eyes are missing, and there are instead two gaping holes where they should be, like someone had shot two bullet holes into his... skull? Did he still have a skull?

There are two lights flickering at the back of the holes where The Thing’s eyes should have been, and Michael finds himself staring into them. They’re bright, impossibly bright, and they pulsate ever so slightly, as if matching a heartbeat that wasn’t there. He wonders if he’s looking into his own soul, and a cold sense of terror settles over him. One day he might rot away completely, and those impossibly bright dots will be all that’s left...

All the mirrors are covered with towels the next day.

* * *

__Dear Father_ ,_

The pen once again stops short.

Michael leans back into the chair, twining the pen between his fingers. It’s been weeks since the robots at Circus Baby’s Entertainment and Rentals disappeared under mysterious circumstances. It had even made the local papers, seeing as there was nothing else for this small town to report on. Surely his father would’ve known about his success by now. Why hadn’t he called him?

Perhaps William had figured everything out already, or least the parts he cared about. She was free; that was what was important. The rest was... 

Inconsequential.

_Are you proud of me?_

He crumples up the paper and throws it into the wastebasket.

* * *

There is a knock at the door.

He stands in the kitchen as if frozen. It’s nightfall outside - dark, but was it dark enough to conceal him? If it wasn’t, and someone found out... Then what? Would they call the police? Try to attack him? Run away, face distorted in terror at the corpse in front of the-

There’s another knock.

“Coming.” He grabs a pair of sunglasses from the table, hoping they would be enough to hide where his eyes should be. The lights in the living room are turned off, leaving only a faint glow from the kitchen, and the lock is turned slower than usual 

“Uh, hey there.“ The other individual is a man, older than him and only made to look even older by the lines around his face. He fidgets, waiting for a response, but all he gets is silence. “I just... Well, I heard some... Well-“

“Rumors?“ He had heard them too, circling through people’s gossip under hushed breath. _Did you hear about Michael? People say his skin was all messed up, and he wasn’t walking properly. Do you think he’s contracted leprosy or something?..._

“Yeah, that.“ The other man rubs his head. Michael can see him squinting through the dark, and he takes a few more steps back. “I just wanted to check up on you. People said there was something wrong with your skin?“

“Yes, I had a skin infection and was... ill for a while. I’m already getting over it.“ Once again, it isn’t a lie.

“Oh, I see. Good.“ The man shifts his weight awkwardly. “Well, glad to hear you’re doing better. H- Hey, that skin problem of yours, it isn’t... infectious, is it?“

Something that might have once been a smile spreads across his face as he realizes why the man was here. “No, I don’t believe it’s anything you’ll need to worry about.“

“Oh! Okay. Great.“ He tries to play it off, but the relief in the man’s voice is a evident. “That’s good to hear.”

Another awkward pause, followed by a hand clap. “Well! I should, uh, probably take off. Take care of yourself, okay Michael?“

“Of course.“ The door is locked behind the man, just in case.

* * *

_Dear _Father_ ,_

_Something is wrong with me. I’ve tried to fix it, but I can’t._

He remembers the day clearly, as much as he tries not to. He had been lying on the sidewalk at first, and it had taken him a minute to get his bearings.

Then he had pulled himself to his feet, walked home, and plunged a knife into his chest.

He wasn’t trying to die, or at least that’s what he still tells himself. He was already dead, or rather, supposed to be dead - the discolored, rotting state of his skin was proof enough of that. Something had gone wrong and needed to be corrected, and he had repeated that to himself over and over even as his hands shook so violently it was hard to keep the knife straight.

There was a faint twinge of pain as the knife went in, and he griped the table for support, wondering how long he’d have until he blacked out. A circle of dark maroon spread out from the tip and he placed his hand over the spot, surprised to find that the area was wet. _Why am I... bleeding?_ It didn’t make sense - he didn’t have veins any more. He wasn’t even positive he still had a heart.

He had gripped the knife handle and pulled it out, remembering something his father had said about how leaving the knife in slows blood loss. The wound no longer hurt, and he had slid his fingers into the remaining hole, trying to determine where the blood came from. But there was nothing, just a layer of skin that was somehow able to stay supported on its own. He couldn’t die.

_I still saved her. That’s all that matters to you, right?_

* * *

_“You won’t die.”_

He can hear hear the noise of the air conditioner turning on, and he wonders why he’s bothering to pay for it when he has no sense of feeling left.

_“You won’t die.”_

He’s not sure where he heard it. It was her voice, but it wasn’t something she had said before _it_ happened. If she had, he might have reconsidered.

He stares at the far wall, feeling a dull ache in his torso. It’s not true pain, but something fainter, almost like his body could remember what _it_ felt like. He uses it as an excuse to continue lying on the bed, missing the ability to sleep.

_“You won’t die.”_

He doesn’t regret it, really. He had promised him that he would free her, and he did. If everything had ended there, it wouldn’t have been a long life, and not necessarily a happy one, but at least his father would be pleased. He wouldn’t have had any regrets.

He lies there and remembers forcing himself to stay in place as the Scooper’s alarm rang through the building. He remembers what _it_ felt like. _He remembers taking the keys off his belt and unlocking the backstage door, revealing a dirty yellow rabbit suit. He remembers the tiny bit of pride in his father’s voice as he put his hand on him, and he remembers his words. “We’ll be able to save them all.“_

He’s lying again.

* * *

Michael leans back in the chair and perches the pen on the back of his hands. Why hasn’t he called him yet?

Surely he was just... busy. He wouldn’t ignore him after such an important accomplishment.

He never ignored her. Michael could still remember the look on his face when he had brought the screaming toddler home, announcing to Michael that this was his new sibling.He hadn’t questioned it - he had learned over the years that no matter how questionable the action was, his father always had a perfectly justifiable reason for his actions. He had loved her, after all.

His love was the only reason Michael was sent back for her. If someone who he didn’t love as much got into an “accident”-

He sets his hands where his eyes should have been, the closest thing he can get to closing them, feeling a cold sense of dread. His father was never wrong. If he felt that his accomplishment wasn’t enough...

Then he’d simply have to do something else for him. Something even more important.

He picks back up the pen and begins to write.

_Father,_

_It’s me, Michael._


End file.
